


The Minnesota Affair

by WasteTimeandType



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Grief, Illya Whump, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Multi-POV, Other, Sleep Deprivation, Soz, Third Person Limited, Torture, anti-russian sentiment, its just one guy, multi-chaptered, the CIA are pretty incompetent in this fic, theres some tension between them, they all care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WasteTimeandType/pseuds/WasteTimeandType
Summary: Illya wasn't even meant to be on this mission, but Waverly sent him to the USA to work on a CIA mission for goodwill. It all goes south, Gaby and Napoleon disappear and Illya finds himself at the brunt of the CIA's suspicion.Multi-chaptered, Multi-POV kink meme fill.





	1. Illya

**Author's Note:**

> I was finally trying to find the request to my other fic 'six-feet under' (which I recently edited and tidied up) but I found this prompt instead and got inspired. (who knows where Six-Feet Under's original prompt went, maybe I made it up?).
> 
> https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=212352#cmt212352. Spoilers, obviously.

December, 1963.

 ---

Minnestoa. A place Illya had never visited before and decided he never had much cause to visit again- though the cold, empty landscapes did remind him of Russia as they passed through the December snow.

They had landed in Minneapolis and had looked around with mild amusement. “I know Minnesota is not usual place for you, Cowboy. Why were you here?”

“My business in Minnesota was nothing legal, if that's what you’re asking,” Napoleon states flippantly. It wasn’t really, but it was the answer he suspected after reading his file.

A young agent from the CIA was transporting them from the airport to the CIA safe house and base. Her name was Helen Watson, and Napoleon was already chatting with her and doing his flirtation _thing_ , which he should’ve expected, but he and Gaby still found cause to share rolling eyes.

They parked at what Illya knew to be their stop for tonight. In the mission briefing, they had described a small, rural motel that was recently being used for ‘business associates’ surveying the area for more natural resources to exploit. Or, in reality, the CIA trying to hunt a terrorist operation.

Watson had opened the door, introduced them all to the motel receptionist before taking them all upstairs and into one of the many motel rooms the CIA was operating in. She presented the UNCLE agents to their CIA mission superior before them; a tall, dark blonde man with piercing blue eyes. The glare Illya received from his new superior was direct and lengthy as the man introduced himself as Alexander Laarson.

Illya could easily observe the contrast from his cold reception, to his two partners who received far more cordial introductions, a shake of the hand and a message of _we’re so happy you’re here_ and _we hope this mission will pass easily_. Napoleon even had the gall to reintroduce himself to Watson, who seemed slightly bemused but accepted it with a faked exasperated smile. She was having fun playing right into Napoleon’s hands, it seemed.

Napoleon did seem to have the sense to ignore his ‘needs’ (as Napoleon had so pertinently described it once) and at least concentrate on the mission tonight, and Illya supposed he would have celebratory sex with someone _after_ the completed mission. They were sitting in his and Napoleon’s motel room; Gaby oddly fuming and Napoleon flicking through his book, before the American broke the silence: “Waverly sure does have a love for playing diplomat. Well, I hope this goes well,” Napoleon commented, then pouring himself a glass of whatever brandy he had stashed into his suitcase.

Illya knew what he was referring to. He wasn't even supposed to be here. The CIA needed a contact who could pass for German and they had been keen to work with UNCLE, considering the global reach of the terrorist group they were tracking. Napoleon was also requested, being the former CIA agent simply for ease of extra hands and liability.

Waverly sent Illya along to aid the mission, commenting that he was their best pointer and marksmen and could easily hide away and serve the group as, described by Waverly, was ‘helpful in a bind’.

 _“Request two UNCLE agents; get one angry, volatile Russian free_ ,” Napoleon had joked when Waverly had told them. The humour wasn't completely untrue though, it was all Waverly’s decision. Illya would’ve happily stayed in London to run some minor missions for Waverly, but he’d been sent off with his partners.

Napoleon’s offering of a nightcap was refused by him and Gaby, who had been twiddling with her necklace in anxiety. Gaby looked openly perturbed. “You've helped save the world, Illya. They shouldn't treat you with such hostility; you're doing them a favour,” she commented, continuing to twist her necklace.

Illya snorted. “I wasn't expecting roses, Gaby.”

“It's just how the CIA is. Paranoid as anything. And there _are_ Russian spies operating in America.” Napoleon added, shrugging, finishing the drink he’d poured himself. “Also, they have bugged the rooms you know.”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “I've been in the spy game long enough to know that, Napoleon.” She walked over to a lamp, where she picks at something small placed on a light bulb. “You hear that? Illya's not your enemy.”

Illya had smirked at that. It was kind to have someone defend his _honour_ of all things, even if she didn't need to. He hadn't expected a warm welcome in the slightest, and he doubted that the KGB would treat Napoleon with anything other than suspicion, even if the thief defected with an armful of secrets that included the nuclear weapons codes. If Illya could prove that there was some use to them working altogether, then he would. He didn't share Waverly's misplaced idealism, but he also wasn't going to actively aggravate the situation. If he could _prove_ something about Russians, then he would. So, he would be on his best behaviour, and he knew that meant controlling his temper in the face of idiocy. As difficult as that would be; since it was in such high frequency amongst the American populace.

 

\---

 

Illya pulled his binoculars to his face. He was balancing on the roof of an 1880s gothic mansion that had only recently been abandoned and was decided months in advance to be the place for a meeting between Gaby, or ‘Konig’, and the White Dawn. Illya himself was hiding behind a large chimney, sniper rifle in hand in case anything went wrong; with a small earpiece so he could hear the conversation down below. It was an empty, sparse location and it made sense that both the White Dawn would like such a rural location, it was easy to hide. It was also easy for the CIA to hide a couple more agents in the empty mansion. However, it was also stupid as they were in the middle of winter in Minnesota, and it was cold, but Illya knew this whole operation shouldn't be longer than twenty minutes so he ignored how the bitter wind stung his uncovered extremities

Through the binoculars, he could see Gaby laughing with her target in the expansive front gardens. Napoleon was standing beside her, looking oddly stoic as he played the role as the chauffeur. A car sat in the driveway belonging to the group, along with a van.

The whole operation was going smoothly at the current moment. The group was mysterious, but they were called the White Dawn by CIA officials. Their movements had been tracked or at least tried to be since they had broken into a chemical laboratory in Austria and stole formulae and designs for the nastiest of weapons. It was all hush-hush, the laboratory wasn’t even meant to exist, and they had all been sworn to secrecy.

In Illya’s brief, he had been told that they had contacted a German buyer called Louise Konig, but they did not know what she looked like apart from her name and the fact she was rich. The FBI had intercepted the real Konig’s mail months ago, and they had reluctantly passed over the case over to the CIA when they realised that the connections ran far further afield than just Minnesota or even the USA. Gaby was to be sent in instead of the woman, which she clearly enjoyed playing a far classier lady than she ever would be. Down below, Gaby spoke with a practiced formality that was nothing like the car mechanic he knew.

“We only need some sort of contact. “ _We really need those documents back, but we need to listen and discover as much information as well, as a previous member of the group was notoriously silent once arrested. They need to be relaxed_.” Laarson had stated at their debrief. “ _And if Miss Teller places a tracker on them, we can find their base of operations.”_ The whole operation seemed silly to Illya, all this work for only a small amount of intelligence, but he supposed it was an opening they couldn't refuse.

Down below in the gardens, he could see the target, a Mr Strickman, touch Gaby’s arm in some sort of playful gesture. Illya’s finger involuntarily twitched around the trigger, but he calmed himself. _Breathe._ Solo was down there in case anything went wrong, as incompetent as Napoleon could be sometimes, and Gaby laughed merely laughed it off.

Strickman stopped laughing. “I feel we should get to business now.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we must. Are the documents truly from Vienna?”

“Yes, all tested and all fine,” Strickman says, producing a bundle.

“These look to be all in order”, Gaby said, before flippantly giving them to Napoleon, who held them. Illya felt some amusement at that- it was nice to see Napoleon as obedient dogsbody after countless times of him playing suave and confident characters that _talked_ and _talked_. Gaby smiled again. Illya pockets the binoculars and steadied his rifle as he gets ready in case.

“And to what extent have these been shared with other people.” She said, before looking at Strickman directly, taking off her sunglasses. “I am concerned that they will be traced."

The man nodded. “Well, we can't share everything with you, Konig.” He said, and Illya felt his suspicions raise as another man stepped out of the large van that Strickman had parked in the gardens. He wondered if he should take a shot, unsure of the other man's intentions, when a loud bang startled Illya to turn around and see men dressed in black scramble through a trapdoor on the roof.

Illya was soon being tackled. One immediately took his rifle and threw if off the building. he could hear Napoleon and Gaby react to the commotion. “What in the world!?” Gaby said, but he could no longer see her as he was being wrestled into the slate tiles. “Well, we don't do business with spies _Konig.”_ There was a hand pulling at the earpiece and throwing it off the building as well, and Illya felt his stomach churn as he heard Napoleon shout and gunshots started firing. As he felt his cheek cut along the slate, he managed to twist his head to see down to  Gaby being manhandled. _Gaby._ The red mist descended, and he immediately hauled himself up, flipping he man off from on top of him and sliding down the tiles down the roof and onto the hard paved floor.

Illya dodged a few more poorly timed fists, twisting them round in his favour and the suspected terrorists were soon descending off the roof.

Illya could see Napoleon shoot someone and they went down, freeing Gaby, but Illya could see many other armed men here. All dressed in black, and advancing on his partners. They had been clearly betrayed somehow, or compromised badly, and there was a clear and present danger.

There was no clear way down off the roof without dropping four storeys and potentially breaking his legs (or more) on the hard surface below. Illya resigned to himself that he would have to to risk the roof entrance where his assailants had appeared from.

Immediately he was met with a few more assailants, startled by his presence. He grasped the neck of one, twisting it as he hurled the body into the other startled guard. _Amateurs. They acted tough but their fighting skills were rudimentary and predictable, he himself was a far more accomplished fighter when he was only seventeen-_

Illya let out a gasp as he felt a knife pierce his skin, and he was relieved that no-one else was there to hear that tiny emittent of weakness. He swung his hand across his new assailants face, the man crying out in surprise and he let go of the knife’s handle. Illya pulled it out of his side, twisted round and slammed the knife into the man's throat.

The man flopped to the floor immediately, and he let himself have a few moments to prod the wound. It wasn't deep- far too tiny a knife to inflict any serious damage, Illya wondered _why the White Dawn weren't better prepared_ \- and he stood up, wincing at the wound but he tried to ignore it for the most part. Gaby needed him, and he suspected that Napoleon did too. He reaches down to the man’s body and takes a small shotgun the man was holding.

He continued to sprint down the corridors of the large mansion, eventually seeing the bodies of two CIA agents who were meant to safeguard the mansion from within. This whole mission was flawed, and the White Dawn had managed to  before quickly turning to a window to look at the courtyard. He glanced out of the window, to see Napoleons and Gabys positions, but his stomach lurched to see a distant figure, but very clearly Napoleon, being restrained standing up whilst a man in front of him pointed a gun. There was a gunshot as Illya tore himself away- he watched for five seconds, at most- and he heard Gaby scream.

He continued to run, but his stomach dropped further as another gunshot filled the air. He could feel the rage boiling within him, as he pushed on no matter his pusating torso.

_Gaby, Napoleon._

He rounded onto the stairwell, missing steps as he descended the storeys, but someone rounded the staircase and slammed into him.

Unlike his previous attackers, this one actually carried a bit of muscle and Illya was embarrassingly unprepared for the fist that connected to his cheek. Illya stumbled back, the gun knocked out of his hand, before ducking the other flying fist. A fight on the staircase should be easy for Illya, since he did have the higher ground, but the giant opposite him dodged his swinging foot. Illya grimaced, and the man lunged for him. Illya drew his knife as he did so and the man gasped as he fell onto it. Victory though it was, it was short lived as the sheer momentum the man had been carrying caused Illya to lose his footing and slam down hard onto his back, and he saw stars as he head contacted the back of the concrete stairs.

_Gaby, Napoleon._

He must've blacked out for a moment, because he awoke with the man on top of him _,_ gasping lightly from the stab wound. He pushed him off, ignoring that he now had the other man's blood soaking into his shirt, and he continued to descend the stairs, trying to ignore the intense ringing in his head.

He rounded into the hallway and opened the front door. He stumbled into the courtyard, seeing he fleeting image of the van  being loaded with Gaby’s limp body, but was only met with a punch to his face and he fell to the floor. He spat out blood as he saw the man’s boot stand in front of him.

The man laughed. “Give the CIA a message: Don't think you can so easily manipulate us.” He said, before lifting his rifle and slamming it into Illya’s head, taking  him immediately away from the plane of consciousness.

\---

 

Illya blinked awake, touching the back of his head and feeling the heavy feeling of tacky blood. The courtyard was empty, only tyre tracks on the pavement where it looked like the van that Illya had seen in the courtyard before had made a hasty exit, not caring who was in the mansion.

He slammed his fist into the nearest wall. The red mist was moving in front of his eyes.

He’d failed. He'd been their pointer and he'd been ambushed. He'd failed them. He could've made it down sooner, but he'd been unconscious in the mansion.

They were most likely dead, and it was his fault.

The world dissolved around him, spinning and colliding into one singular mess. His fists were connecting with the wall, but Illya couldn't care about how his knuckles were coming away bloody.

_Gaby, Napoleon._

They were gone.

\--

The CIA soon arrived, which at least gave Illya some comfort as he had been trying to get the tracker in his hidden equipment bag to work.

He tried to explain what happened at best to the stunned CIA agents. He was sure he acted too disconnected, constantly looking at his tracking device for a signal and his head still having a constant, throbbing _pain_.

Cars were being sent out to seek for the lost agents. He was trying to be professional, clipped tones and answers as he explained what happened, but he could still feel the tremors in his hand. He knew that he was giving Laarson a glare, which probably wasn't helping the situation, but Laarson was returning them easily.

He finished the whole exposition, and more agents were sent out. He waited impatiently whilst Laarson and some other head agents talked amongst themselves. He grew more frustrated, the tremors in his hand increasing. He turned to leave the courtyard and walk down the road away from the empty mansion.. “Where are you going, Mr Kuryakin?” Someone asked, their voice hissing, most likely Laarson.

“To look for Gaby and Napoleon.” He responded, turning around to look at them.

Laarson shook his head, and there was anger present in his eyes and face. “Mr Kuryakin, you need to come with us.” He said, and the two junior agents lifted their guns to him.

He inwardly sighed, but he didn't break his gaze with Laarson. He knew what was happening, and there was no way to fight it.

_Gaby, Napoleon..._

 

\---

 

“My Kuryakin, we’ll ask you again: What involvement did you have with the group that kidnapped Agent Solo and Agent Teller and murdered two of our agents?”

“None.”

He was slapped, harshly. “Think again, Kuryakin! What is the KGB’s involvement with White Dawn?!”

They’d already asked him the same questions multiple times since they'd cuffed him to the chair. He'd been dragged there, hooded so he didn't see his exact location, but he suspected from looking around the room, which was damp and not exactly cared for that this was a warehouse of some sorts. A warehouse that may have been used for interrogations before, considering the security set-up was clearly adept. He glares to Laarson and the two other smartly dressed agents, who were clearly the most bulked ones Laarson had because they weren't intimidating him in the slightest. "This is waste of time. I have already explained. Go find Gaby and Napoleon. KGB did nothing, this is CIA mess."

He felt another punch strike him. The man had something weighted in this strike across his face, and he spat out blood onto the table. 

“Kuryakin, Were you in _any_ way responsible for their disappearance?.”

He swallowed at that one. _Yes._ He hadn't been there for them. He'd let himself get ambushed, and they'd been captured. He was too _slow_. He'd been knocked out because he'd misjudged his opponent on the stairs and lost valuable time to be ambushed later. They'd been _shot_. The sound of the gunshot reverberating through the mansion he'd been waiting was something he could still hear in his ears.

 _Gaby_ , _Napoleon_ …

He didn't even know what had happened to his partners. They could've just been sedated, or gravely injured, or shot discreetly, or butchered horribly, but he knew they were gone at the moment, and it was _his fault._

One of the agents-- the bald one, as the only thing Illya could differentiate between them since neither had spoken-- who was standing there was clearly frustrated at the lack of progress, and he lifted his hand before slapping him harder, before curling his hand back around the knuckle dusters and punching him again, then again, and the blows only made Illya's headache come back. "You damn Ruskie," he said to Illya, pulling at his hair before striking him with the most force yet, which only made Illya's sight blur in pain.

“Enough,” Larson said to the agent who stopped the blows. Illya felt immediate relief and spat more blood onto the small interrogation table before him, and he could feel a stickiness trickle into his eye. “Let Mr Kuryakin sit and think about his actions for a bit, alone,” Laarson finished and the other agents nodded to their superior.

Illya was left alone in the room, apart from the small agent on guard duty near the window of the cell room, cuffed to the chair. He merely leant back, ignoring the leaking blood and his throbbing face, and instead gazed up at the concrete ceiling.

The warehouse was damp and and draughty, and he could hear the sound dripping behind him. The chair he was cuffed to was uncomfortable and a cold metal, but the situation he was in didn't do much to bother him.

There was a cold numbness settling into his chest. He felt an immeasurable feeling of grief. Illya knew he cared for Gaby and Napoleon, but he'd always thought they had all kept their distance well enough to not get _too_ attached.

It wasn't useful to collect friends in their line of work. Illya should've known better, but here he was.

Illya could curse the two for having such an effect on him. The loud and incredibly annoying American Cowboy, and the blunt and stubborn German Chop-shop girl were _not_ two people he had ever needed to care for. And yet, he did. They worked in his way into his heart at the very beginning. From when he sent Gaby into a clear dangerous ploy with Unlce Rudi (of course she was more competent than she originally appeared), or when he pulled Napoleon free from an electric chair. It was okay on that mission in Rome, he was to never seem them again. However, they were now all liabilities to each other. They dragged him down; their presence was like a scar on his self, never to be rid of.

He would find them if the CIA didn't. Once he got out of here, he would tear the whole of the USA down to find the people who did this. He suspected that due to CIA incompetence they wouldn't be able to track them down, but he would. He strained against the metal cuffs chaining him to the chair, but they were not budging. Clearly a good quality alloy, as he felt his skin break so he stopped the pointless movement since the chair seemed to be bolted down to the floor as well.

He _would_ find them. And after that? He didn't know. A rogue agent wouldn't be able to reintegrate back into the KGB or UNCLE, surely. He would find some peace on his own terms, then.

His eyes closed as he breathed deeply. He was sure that hunting down each and every member of the group would perhaps only lessen the pain in his chest slightly, but it was the only thing he knew he would be able to do currently.

A loud buzzing sound filled the room. And he opened his eyes, as the irritating buzzer continued for ten more seconds before being turned off. He saw the guard stand outside the interrogation room, a smug look on his face. Illya only glared back.

He wasn't surprised at this development. He expected it really. They'd keep him awake until the words rolled off his tongue. Words that he still didn't have the answer to.  _A waste of time._

He sighed, and merely hoped that the CIA would find his two partners.

 _Gaby_ , _Napoleon_...


	2. Napoleon

The small motel stood in front of them, in all its shabby glory, and Napoleon never thought to think he’d never been so happy to see the disappointing building. It was dark, so dark he would’ve driven past it if he hadn’t been driving slowly and looking out for it. He parked the car near the safehouse, and looked over to Gaby. “Well, we made it.”

Her glance was one of utmost relief, and she smiled back. “Thank god.”

A tap on the door came and one of the junior agents peered at them. Napoleon stepped out of the car in the torch's light, and the man blinked in astonishment. “Mr Solo?”

“Surprised?” Napoleon said, and the man gestured them out of the car, still looking confused.

They followed him to the motel, and Gaby stood over to the young agent, giving him instructions. “We need to speak to Laarson, now, we’re both exhausted and freezing, we both need showers and we’re both in need of a hot meal because we haven’t eaten apart from some snacks we got from a gas station with five dollars we found in the car we stole.”

“Don’t let her confidence fool you, Teller has sprained her ankle and needs medical attention.” he added, and Gaby glared at him.

“What I need is some _sleep_. Also, Solo got stabbed in the shoulder.” Gaby snorted, mildly miffed at Solo’s insistence. Napoleon felt his shoulder throb slightly in remembrance of the fight they’d had in the front gardens

The agent nodded, still looking startled, but left them at the door. “I'll fetch Laarson.”

The face on the elder agent was one of absolute shock when he saw them, but he soon broke out in a smile. “It's good to see you well. I have to say, this is a relief and something else.”

Napoleon shook his hand and smiled. “Yes, we’re quite happy ourselves. Now if you would please let us in.”

“Of course,” Laarson said, gesturing them in. It was once they entered the building they let out a sigh of relief and Napoleon and Gaby felt they could unwind. They were finally safe. “What is the time?” He asked Laarson, who glanced at his wristwatch. “Three am, nearly. You've been gone around thirty-six hours.”

“God,” Gaby commented and shrugged. “How long were we travelling? Half a day?”

“Potentially, we don't know the time we left.” He commented. Laarson opened his mouth to question Napoleon, but he cut him off, “I have a lock pick stored in my pants seams in case, and I used it to open the cell they'd thrown us in, this was, I don’t quite know, they took my watch, at around lunchtime? We stole a car after a thirty-minute walk I can estimate, and then the real difficulty was just finding this place. Not easy when the landscapes all look the same and we were unconscious for the journey there.”

“You were shot with tranquilliser darts, I gather.”

Gaby nodded. “It so looked like a handgun, we should look into that. They wanted us alive to interrogate us, but I think they were waiting to take us to another place to do it ‘properly’, so we decided to get out rather than trying to gather information as prisoners in lieu of an uncertain rescue. Sorry Laarson, this isn’t our mission,” she states, and Napoleon will admit that he’s happy that Gaby is doing the talking and dealing with the CIA. His skill set is well regarded, but any backtalk could get him in trouble. “I take it Illya got out okay?” She added, and Laarson nodded. “Kuryakin is in one piece. I suspect we’ll discuss what all went down tomorrow and the possible explanations.” They both breathe heavy sighs of relief. They woke up, the two of them, in a cell with no clue what had happened to their partner. Napoleon refused to speculate with Gaby, but privately he feared the worst.

“Yes, we’re all in need of some explanations. Is Kuryakin in our sleeping quarters?” He asked Laarson, who shook his head. “He's not in the house.”

“Where is he then?”

“He's helping us with our investigation. I'm not sure he’s contactable currently.”

Napoleon sighed, exasperated. He can easily guess that the CIA didn't want to put up with the Russian agent and sent him out on some random information thread to get him out of their hair. “Well, as soon as he is, can you send him a message informing him of our safe return. Never mind if it wakes him up; we know him, he likes to be in the loop.” Laarson merely gave a stiff nod. _Dammit, he knew that the man didn't like his Russian colleague, but he could at least try to be more helpful._

They were seated on a sofa as a small medic came and began attending to his shoulder. “It isn’t a large wound, but the knife was rusty."

The medic touched his shoulder with a wry smile, which he reciprocated. If it wasn't so late he could invite her to his room. But alas, he was exhausted after escaping a mad man. Pity.

At the same time, Laarson and Watson were taking notes and looking at maps. He describes his and Gaby’s waking in the damp cell; and how they had to escape and suffer the Minnesotan weather. He describes how they escape; how they had knocked out a guard after unlocking the cell and disappearing into the night; how they didn't keep to the roads until by chance they stumbled upon a small farmhouse and hotwired the car; how they'd found five dollars in the car for lunch and supplies from a gas station; how they’d gotten lost in the familiar looking fields but evaded asking for directions. It had been a long, long day.

Laarson nods. “You say it was only half an hour away from the site?” He asked.

“An estimation; it's hard to keep track of the time when we had our watches stripped off of us.”

“Well, with a few calls we’ll be able to trace the license plate.” Laarson added.

Finally, he and Gaby were excused and allowed to shower in their sleeping quarters. It felt so good to wash away some thirty-six hours of grime away from his skin, feeling finally clean.

Gaby was still sitting in his and Illya’s shared room, flicking through a magazine on a chair when Napoleon stepped out the shower.

“I think you need to return to your room, Miss Teller” He said, yawning and stretching as he flopped onto his bed.

She nods and hobbles upwards. “Tell me if Illya comes back. Sleep be dammed.”

He nods and smiles, before turning away as Gaby leaves, closes the door and turns off the light.

He settles into the covers and drifts into an easy sleep.

\---

Napoleon Solo woke up, feeling still slightly drained but far better and far more rested than he had been last night at four AM. He was almost happy; but then he remembered where he was: in a damp building in the middle of nowhere Minnesota back with the CIA. There was a reason he had never returned to this state. It was boring as anything, for one; and contained one or two or more persons who wanted him dead, for the other.

He rolled over in his bed to check if Illya was back and had decided not to wake him. The other bed was empty, and no-one had slept in the neat sheets, so Illya was still clearly lost to the CIA still.

He sighed, and he decided to get ready. He’d promised Laarson he’d help them with inquiries but they all knew that as soon as they had been found missing. He went downstairs to see if any of the other agents were there, but there was none apart from Watson.

“Helen, hello” he greeted the female agent, and she merely raised her eyebrows at him.

“We’re not that friendly Solo,” Watson responded.

“We’re not? Pity,” he said as he moved to the toaster to sort him out some toast.

She looks up at him. “The CIA found the White Dawn base. It was burnt to the ground and there was no personnel.

 _So this mission really was a disaster of the most imaginable._ No evidence on stolen plans, no personnel to question… nothing. What a waste of time. He sighed. “Have you heard anything about Kuryakin?”

“What do you mean?”

“Illya Kuryakin. UNCLE’s Russian agent. Where is he?”

She looked at him in slight confusion. “Well, he's currently being asked a few questions.”

“Why now?” he asked, and Watson just shrugged. “Well… these things go on for a while.” She said, and Napoleon paused at her words, the events starting to slot into place.  
Napoleon suddenly felt very, very stupid. He’d merely assumed from Laarson’s pitiful amount of information on Illya that he assumed that Illya had been purposefully sidelined. He began to suspect that he was not side-lined out from the CIA; but was being held by them. Interrogated. If he hadn't been so exhausted last night, he would have inquired further. But he hadn’t, he’d been simply relieved to know Kuryakin was alive and assumed that he was fine.

“I would like to see Laarson. To discuss Kuryakin.”

She snorted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Look, between you and me, I have some information that I would like to pass on about Kuryakin and his… wavering loyalties.” he said, lies easily flowing from his lips, leaning in to her as if it was some secret. Helen Watson was clearly Laarson’s number two for the operation, and he knew she knew all that was happening. Watson followed in anticipation, looking at him intently, before frowning; “Information you couldn’t pass on to Waverly?”

“I've tried. Waverly has to play nice with the KGB if he wants his little pet project to work.” he said, and she nodded in understanding. “Please. Just take me to them; I am assuming they'll be together.”

Watson broke into a grin. “Okay, Solo. If this goes south I won't hesitate to kill you.”

“Excellent, I'll go change.”

He stumbled upstairs to throw on his nearest suit. This wasn't how he expected his morning to go. It was barely nine-thirty, and he'd barely had any sleep but now he felt a sense of urgency to ‘rescue’ Illya. And he had better make up some dodgy excuse for his meeting with Laarson. What would Illya betray UNCLE for the KGB? Nuclear Weapon codes? The location of sleeper agents? Illya was far more likely to betray them over a poorly thought out chess joke than any genune malice towards UNCLE agents.  
He was finished, when he heard a knock. He opened the door, and was pleased when it was Gaby and not Watson. “You’re ready to see Laarson, I assume?”

“Not exactly,” he whispered to Gaby, gesturing her inside before picking up a pen and paper. He quickly wrote down the problem he was encountering, not wishing to alert the bugs in his room. “I think I have an opportunity to doss Illya in.” He doubted that Watson was listening in right now but then again there might be hidden agents in this wretched building.

She raised his eyebrows at the note, her lips pursing and then she looked horrified. She touched Napoleon's arm. “Illya’s my problem as well. I'm coming. I'll be down in five.”

\---

Watson had driven them to some derelict building. It was a good hour away from the motel, but you wouldn't be able to tell with the snow covered fields all blending into one.  
Watson parked the car at the warehouse. It looked unsuitable for use, but Napoleon suspected that it’s derelict facade held a far more furnished interior. In fact, now that Napoleon peered at it, he was sure they passed it when trying to return to the motel.

They entered the warehouse. The ground floor was mostly empty, however a few agents stepped out of a room on the left. The staircase that greeted them in the hallway looked like it lead to emptiness upstairs, but greater treasures downstairs. He knew from experience that Illya was most likely being held in some sort of basement where the walls would lend themselves better to a cell.

Watson lifted a hand. “Wait here, I'll fetch Laarson.” She said. As soon as she left, he looked at Gaby and they immediately descended down the stairs. He grabbed a discarded broom to wedge the doors shut on their descent.

He kept a slow enough pace that Gaby could keep up with his strides on her hobbling ankle. “Laarson will not be happy” she murmured to Napoleon, who nodded his head in acknowledgement.

The CIA kept up their external security well. But they had let their internal security get a little lax.

He grabbed Gaby into a hold and carried her down the stairs. She yelped at being manhandled like this. “Sorry- quicker.” He stated, as if reading her indignation from her mind.

The broom wouldn't last long, and he knew that they would quickly be found missing.

They reached the bottom floor, and they strode through the doors at the end of the stairwell, startling a young guard who was on the other side. He was clearly facing a door in the concrete, which is what Napoleon suspected it to be.

“Should you be down here?” The agent asked, and Napoleon nodded. “Yes, I am CIA and I am here to free Kuryakin. He’s been found not-guilty” He said, walking up to him. The agent nodded, and Napoleon was surprised that worked, but then the agent pulled back from opening the door and looked at hem suspiciously. He was slow on the uptake, who were the CIA hiring these days? The young agent was looking at them suspiciously. Do you have permission from Laarson?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it then?”

Napoleon patted his pockets and pretended to look shocked. “I must’ve left it upstairs.”

The agent rolled his eyes and went to his radio, “I’ll check,” he said, before Gaby lifted up a gun. “Don’t call him!”

The agent looked surprised and held his hands up as Gaby made him stand against the wall.

“Gaby you brought a gun!?” he asked.

Gaby looked at him. “Didn’t you!?”

“Of course.”

“Go and get him then!” she said through gritted teeth, and Napoleon agreed and drew the lock-pick. This was the same lock-pick he used to free he and Gaby a day earlier. Now he was using it on Peril.

Illya was staring to the wall, eyes dropping then waking himself up. It was odd, and he wondered why Illya wasn't looking at their commotion. Napoleon swung round to glare at the guard, who looked a little sheepish before turning up to the cell. “Illya,” he said, and their Russian partner finally looked up.

A look of shock filtering across his face. “Cowboy-”

“Peril,” he said, moving over to the cuffed Russian. Illya looked terrible. His face was black and blue and slight swollen indicating regular beatings, and he noticed obvious how tired Illya looked. “You're not dead,” Illya stated, looking up at him. The relieved look he gave them- with his battered face and sunken eyes-- made Napoleon’s heart do an uncomfortable _twist_.

He smiled at him, genuine and trying to relax Illya. “Illya, I'm fine fine, Gaby is fine; we got out easy.” Napoleon got to work trying to undo his cuffs strapping to his chair, trying to remain focussed and not let the anger get the best of him. He was stupid, so stupid to believe the CIA wouldn't harm Illya. Napoleon noticed that Illya had tear tracks on his face; he doubted that Illya knew that he’d even cried and he wasn’t going to bring it up.

“I am sorry for not protecting you earlier.” Illya said.

Napoleon wants to chastise him for even thinking of apologising when _they're not the ones being held by a supposed ally in a dark and damp basement for goodness sake Illya._

He decides to ignore this strand of conversation for now. The cuffs were difficult to unlock, and they were rusted, but even if he did free Illya, he didn’t have a plan. In fact, his plan had been demand Illya’s release, but it had quickly spiraled. They now had a _hostage_ , for fuck's sake, and Napoleon knew that they weren’t going to just walk out with Illya. Perhaps just contact Waverly? That was a potentially better plan than this, but he’s still not ready to leave Illya just yet. “Illya, how long have you been here?” he says, looking back from the cuffs to Illya’s face. He looks genuinely happy _because of course he would be, they’re not dead-_

“Since you were captured.” Illya replies, then looks at Napoleon’s grimacing face. “I was let out for bathroom.” Illya shrugs.

Napoleon is appalled, and it doesn't take a lot to faze him. This isn’t even that bad, he’s seen Illya worse than this. Perhaps it’s because it’s the CIA and he didn’t even think of it last night when they were sleeping in bed whilst Illya was suffering, even in a slight way. That despite everything, the CIA was supposed to be allied with UNCLE and respect their agents. Either way, it’s been around most likely forty-eight hours without sleep for Kuryakin which he was most likely trained for, so he doesn't know why he's so outraged but he is. He breathes in, and tries to calm himself down.

“Mr Solo, stop trying to free the Russian and let us talk for a few minutes.” Napoleon looked up to see Laarson standing there. He heard a yelp and Gaby was unceremoniously shoved into the cell with them by Laarson, their previous hostage looking through at them in the window with a glare. “We were questioning Kuryakin over his involvement with your disappearances.”

“I guessed,” Napoleon responded flippantly, continuing to work on the cuffs, “but I know Illya wasn't involved, so there's no need for cuffs.”

He finally finished opening the metal restraints, which Illya was thankful for, rubbing his sore wrists. He looked over to Illya once more, then back to Laarson. “You didn't even tell him we were alive.” That's what galls him- _Illya hadn't even known._ Napoleon, Gaby and Illya had been a team for what, six-months? It pained Solo to admit it, even to only himself, that he knew far more about these people than he ever should have. And he _knew_ how the Russian’s mind worked. It would overthink and examine everything- especially this, and would torment him, and Illya hadn't even been able to get some reprieve from his own mind by being allowed to sleep. The CIA had chosen to extend the torment on their Russian’s mind. _For what?_

 

“Well you two aren't meant to know, but sadly it appears I have to spell out what is meant to be secret” Laarson commented, flicking over to Watson who stood sheepish behind him. He flicks her head to her, and she leaves the basement. He raised his voice to talk to Napoleon; “look, Solo, Teller, we have reason to be suspicious. This mission was meticulously planned for _months_ , and the only weak link was Mr Kuryakin here. They knew from the start this operation was a set up, and you weren't the real Konig, Ms Teller. Someone leaked.”

“He's not a weak link!” Gaby retorted. “Illya would never jeopardise a mission for whatever reason you think of. To help White Dawn of all organisations!”

“I doubt that Kuryakin personally believes in the motives of White Dawn; to spread chaos for profit.” Laarson comments, as if stating the obvious. “But it would be typical of a communist plot to try and support extremist groups to destabilise the United States.”

“The last I saw of Peril- I mean, Kuryakin- before getting tranquilised was him throwing one of those white dawn members off the roof!” he protests. 

“And I doubt the Ruskie has any integrity towards his fellow plotters colluding with him.  _I don't know_ for certain, but we have a Communist sitting right in front of us. Questioning is necessary.”

Napoleon shook his head. “I can understand a couple of questions but this is ridiculous,” he says, gesturing to their Russian friend.

Gaby was checking him all over, and feeling the back of his head. “He has blood on his hair, he was clearly hit. And his wounds haven't been checked.” Gaby commented, and Napoleon checked too, which made Illya grimace. He didn't like the fuss. But it only made Napoleon angrier.

“We had to get him in custody-"

He walked up to Laarson, who was standing in the doorway, and looked him dead in the eyes, but Laarson didn't flinch away. “You don't have _any_ evidence, just a misguided hunch because you can't fathom that there might've been a leak earlier down the line, of course it has to be the Russian.” Napoleon mocks, but Laarson doesn't back down from his glare, and the debate quells for a few moments. Napoleon can still hear the dripping of the water in the uncomfortable silence, as the tension swells between them. He wants to punch some sense into the man in front of him, but he restrains himself. “Illya Kuryakin is not on our side by nationality, but he is completely trustworthy. He doesn't have any reason to betray anyone.”

Mr Laarson continued to snort, and Napoleon bristled. “His defences were weak, poor. He had no urgency in proving his innocence. Perhaps, because he was involved,” He stated.

“Napoleon. Gaby.” A voice spoke up, clearly Illya, _and using his first name of all things_ , and it _still_  makes Napoleon agitated but he glances back to Illya. “I am happy you are both alive. Really.” Illya said glancing up at him, and Napoleon strides back into the cell. “But I can handle my own battles.” He said. Illya was still sitting down, his hands resting on his lap, looking far more peaceful than when Napoleon came in.

“You clearly can't, you're half asleep.” Napoleon hissed. Illya was a stubborn fool, just as stubborn as the rest of them. And he was the one trying to diffuse the situation when he’d been involuntarily held for two days. That wasn't his job. Napoleon would smack the man if he wasn't so bruised already.

“I know I am innocent of collusion with terrorists. It is all I need.” Illya shrugged. “Get rest,” he said to them all.

“Oh no, you _do not_ get to martyr yourself, Illya,” Gaby spat, standing up. “We are not leaving until you do as well and get some sleep.”

Illya rolled his eyes, and so did Mr Laarson. “See, the Commie gets the nature of this business,” He stated.

Napoleon sighed. “Can we at least just pick this up after Illya has had some rest?” He asks, trying to be the diplomat here.

Laarson laughed. “You are a fool, Solo. You understand how these things work.”

Napoleon snapped. “Yes I do, but there is usually some evidence of guilt! All we have is some misguided suspicions.” He stood over to Illya, and pulled him to his feet. “We’re leaving.”

Illya pulled his arm away from Napoleon as Mr Laarson practically growled at them. “Mr Solo. This whole exercise has tried my patience. You have to thank God that I was mildly amused by your previous history to forgive this whole show previously. However, _don't_ mistake my purposeful kindness as a lack of influence. If this interruption continues any further, then how much longer would you like added to your sentence? Two years? Three? Surely not _five_ , Mr Solo.”

 _Now, that packs a punch_. Napoleon immediately pursed his lips, at a loss at what to say. He felt Illya squeeze his hand, then let go. “Cowboy, I will be fine. This will not kill me.” He said, before looking dangerously back to Laarson. “I will only cooperate if Napoleon and Gaby will be guaranteed safety.”

“This is stupid!” Gaby cut across, looking as exasperated as anyone and she stepped forward to face Laarson. “We all know he didn't do anything. You know,” she said, glaring at Laarson, standing as tall as she could and gritting her teeth; “but you're embarrassed to admit you're wrong,” she finishes, looking fiery and intimidating and annoyed as hell, but Laarson does not shake.

Laarson huffed, annoyed by that statement ( _the truth, Napoleon ponders_ ). “If we find evidence that he’s not involved, then fine. Currently, he is our only suspect, and I have a right to protect this nation from outside threats.” He hissed. “Perhaps you two don't understand loyalty to your home country, but I do.”

Napoleon threw his hands up. “This is going nowhere.” He stated. “Let's all have a day’s rest before we start again.” Laarson merely snorts again, but he doesn’t “I won’t cooperate with White Dawn investigations if he’s not freed” Napoleon protests, but it’s the last thing he has to negotiate with, “I can make this investigation complicated.”

“Agent Solo, you _will_ return to your room with Ms Teller or you _will_ be punished for insubordination with the aforementioned sentence increase.”

“Napoleon, Gaby, _go_.” Illya hissed again, before grabbing the sides of the chair again, awaiting to be cuffed, “do not get yourself in trouble for _me_.”

Napoleon glanced at Gaby, and she looked slightly resigned to leave but clearly hesitant.

However, at that moment Napoleon was feeling that he may have lost his battle for now. He was frustrated beyond anything. He wanted to rain down hell, but he was being forced into a corner. Illya would be fine. He knew he would be. This was barely _anything_.

At that moment Napoleon steps forward to the doorway, Watson came running through and into the viewpoint. “Mr Waverly is here.” She panted, and she looked out of breath. “He wishes to see Kuryakin.” Laarson immediately groaned in frustration. Napoleon himself had never thought he had heard something so heavenly. It almost made him rediscover his Catholic faith that very second.

“I demand we see him!” Gaby exclaimed, only getting a menacing glare from Laarson.

“Gentlemen,” came the familiar voice, currently out of sight but Napoleon had never felt so relieved. It was like an angel, and Napoleon was sure he would never disrespect Waverly's authority again. Impeccable timing as always. “you really need to improve your internal security. Followed her straight through.” Waverly came into the doorway of the cell where the argument was taking place and nodded to all three of the agents “Ah, splendid. Teller and Solo are fine.” He said, smiling to them both as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“We did send you a telegram, Waverly.” Laarson stated. “Though I suspect you were on a plane,” he adds sourly.

“Yes, well, despite your assurances that Kuryakin was resting or too ‘busy’ to talk, I found it hard to believe he would not have contacted personally. I know Kuryakin, very diligent. I was busy with UNCLE's new recruit's first solo mission, but as soon as that was wrapped-up, I felt I had to come and,” he paused, glancing over to Illya’s seated and beaten form, “straighten things out.”

Laarson slammed his fist into the wall, startling a few of his agents but Waverly remained unfazed. “I've had it up to here _with_ UNCLE. Let me damn well interrogate the suspect- who is _KGB_ , as I have to remind _everyone_ here- as I damn well please.” He was shouting now, every ounce of control frayed.

Waverly shook his head. “On my head, let Illya have a rest and we can investigate some more leads. He is _my_ agent, not currently under KGB employ and I think I have a say.”

Laarson sighed. “Fine. _Fine_. I give up. He stays _here_ until we figure the truth out. I will execute you personally for this Waverly if he escapes,” He growled to their British handler. 

Waverly merely smiled in return, which only deepened Laarson's scowl. He looked to his three agents then back to Laarson; "Splendid, now lets leave it at this," before gesturing to the three to get out of the cell. 

Napoleon pulled Illya up quickly and they stumble out of the small cell. “I expect transport for them to go the safe house.” Waverly commented, earning only a resigned sigh from Laarson before he shoved Watson forward.

\---

Watson drove them home, again, looking sour and glaring at them for getting her in trouble, but Napoleon didn't care if she was incompetent. He supposed his plans for the evening he was going to attempt were off the menu-- not that he cared particularly, not now.

Illya was sitting ramrod straight in the car, looking as annoyed as anything.

“Peril, please relax.” He commented, only for Illya to glare at him.

“I was handling it!” Illya spat, glaring at them, "you did not even have plan!"

“Illya-” Gaby started.

“Don't get yourself in trouble for me, Cowboy.” He started. “You too, Gaby. Just. Don't.” He looked a bit more defeated, as if ashamed for getting them into trouble.

“You'd do the same for us, Illya.” Napoleon said, looking Illya in the eyes. .

Illya looked at him and didn't say anything in return, as if the statement was undeniably true. Napoleon knows it, and perhaps Illya knows it, but won't say. Illya was a complicated man, and Napoleon found him an enigma, an enigma that still needed to be unravelled. He knew Illya cared, he sees it in the man's actions- but the extent that he admits it to himself is unknown, for now

Watson parks outside the safe-house and they all file out of the car, and they retreat to the rooms, all piling into his and Illya’s with Watson on the door, most undoubtedly sulking as she was bitter for Napleon getting her into trouble. He knows that currently Illya’s nerves are frayed currently and he’s close to breaking point, but Napoleon suspects he’s too fatigued to loose control. Illya just looks _so, so tired_ as he undoes his belt and takes off his trousers, slowly, before fumbling with his turtleneck.

Napoleon smiles in amusement as Illya struggles to take it off ( _he never knew why Illya insisted on wearing these ugly things_ ) but his smile fell as he observes a dark patch being peeled away from his skin.

“Illya, were you stabbed?” Napoleon asks. Gaby, who had been preparing a glass of water for Illya turns around in shock.

Illya looks genuinely confused as he throws the turtleneck to one side, before glancing down at his left torso where Napoleon was staring. “Oh, yes.” Illya states, looking bewildered, his voice betraying his confusion at the wound. Illya prodded it, winced, before pulling on the pyjama pants Napoleon had laid out for him. “Small knife. Forgot about it.”

Napoleon is fuming, because he goes over to where Illya is standing by the bed and prods at the small entry wound. It's covered in crusted blood and it doesn't seem to be bleeding currently, but Napoleon is more concerned at the inflammation.

“It's infected.” He states, and Illya wearily sighs. Napoleon feels a spike of anger, they really didn't even check Illya over before hauling him off to a damp cell for interrogation.

“He needs antibiotics then, I’ll take him to the hospital.” Gaby announces. She goes out of the room, presumably to speak to Watson.  
Raised voices occur outside the door, before Watson storms in with Teller trailing behind her. The CIA operative was clearly annoyed, and inspects the wound, prodding it and making Illya hiss. “We’re not taking a KGB agent to the hospital.”

“I do not need hospital-”

“Shut up, Illya.” Napoleon snaps, before turning to Watson. “Look, I thought we were over this-”

“It'd look incredibly suspicious and I can't be bothered to blow the CIA'S presence to the local community on making sure a local hospital is safe. However, the CIA has the resources anyway.” She strides out of the room, before coming back with a small bottle of pills. Napoleon checks the label, and they do say penicillin.

“They are antibiotics, Solo, if that's what you're worrying about.” Watson snaps, clearly at her wits ends. She takes one and swallows it, raising her eyebrows as if to challenge him. He holds up his arms in mock surrender, which only seems to annoy her further.

Illya takes them as if to shut everyone and Watson leaves as Gaby wraps and cleans his midriff. She then grabs a cloth and dabs at the wound on the back of his head, which makes illya wince. He almost insists on Illya taking a shower, but Gaby states that the wound seems fine after she dresses it. He also thinks that Illya needs to ice his facial beatings, but Illya instead takes a painkiller and Napoleon really doesn't have the heart to protest.

Illya lets Gaby fix him up because Napoleon can see that he is tired and dropping off even if he's pretending not to be. He looks to them both. “I am very happy you are both fine” he admits, looking at them both. “I thought the worst.”

“Illya…” Gaby says, taking one of his hands and holding it to her chest. Gaby is thankful he is still alive, still breathing because everything that has happened has made her so tired but she's so angry as well.

“Go to sleep.” She says, pushing him gently down. Illya doesn't resist. “We’ll stay here.” she adds, carding her fingers through his hair.

Illya looks at her strangely and shakes his head. “No need for such worry. I am fine.”

Napoleon stands to the other side of the bed. “It isn't worry, really. We just want to check you won't trash the hotel room in your sleep.”

Illya smiles slightly and finally lays his head down, closing his eyes, with Gaby and Napoleon watching over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -k I once stayed up thirty-six hours with one 45 min nap I think to complete my dissertation for uni and it was god awful and I don't recommend it for one bit. It lead to confusion, nausea and feeling way too emotional. I did it though!! Obviously, Illya would be far harder than me and would be trained how to get into the mindset to battle it and not crack, but he would still be really fcking tired of two nights because physically you need sleep after that amount of time, and with zero sleep without even a nap he would probably forget he got stabbed.  
> \--i doubt Napoleon thinks much of Minnesota. He likes glamour and fine wines and suits.   
> \--- I've no idea how this got so long
> 
> next chapter out in the next week, gaby's is the shortest and it just ties everything up.


	3. Gaby

It was always funny seeing Illya so peaceful. Sure, she had seen him asleep before but he often slept lightly, similar to the expression one eye open. Sometimes Gaby stayed in the same room as him, her own insomnia consuming her as she was alerted to the soft noises of moans and bedsheets ruffling to see Illya moving about in the midst of a bad dream. She'd tried to wake him once, she'd only met with a fist just missing her face. He’d apologised, and rebuffed any concerns with the idea he’d obtained food poisoning.

However, currently he was truly gone to the world, his mind requiring a total shutdown.

She stayed next to Illya, passing the time by flicking through the novels situated on the shelf. Napoleon does the same, and its strange to see them sit in silence. He eventually moves himself to the bed, where he falls asleep. She knows she still feel exhausted from last night, all of them. She yawns, and she fights to stay awake. She said she’d watch Illya, she said…

Gaby wakes to a hand on her shoulder.

She didn't even remember falling asleep, but  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ was in her hand open to the page she was reading on. She looked up to see Napoleon looking down at her, and he beckons her to the door.

She follows and looks at him as they step outside and quietly close the door.

“I think for once he might be having a deep sleep.” Napoleon comments.

“How long has it been?”

“Well I don’t know when you fell asleep. Its nearly five now, so six hours for Illya I guess.” Napoleon comments, before gesturing down to the plate of food on the floor next to the room. I wanted to bring you lunch.”

She smiled gratefully as she ate the sandwich laid for her, but she started to smile to needle Napoleon. “Not up to your usual standards.”

“For some reason, this motel does not stock their fridge well.” He replies in mock annoyance. He taps his hand against the wall. “Did Illya stir?”

“No, he’s just lying there: he looks peaceful.” She comments, and Napoleon nods, noticing the troubled look present on her face, before he places his hand on hers. “He’ll be fine. It was only a few days sleep missed.”

“I know, but it's just that…” she starts, but then stops herself. She hates that she doesn’t know how to articulate the reason her blood boiled. She has dealt with snide comments whilst in the field due to her own nationality and she had learnt how to deal with them by remaining aloof. However, seeing Illya being interrogated only reinforced that the world was not always UNCLE. Gaby was hesitant to call herself an optimist and believed she was a cynic at heart, but UNCLE’s world view of a United Law Enforcement had been something she had been happy to serve. The pushback from other organisations was a reminder of the uphill battle the organisation had for even existing, and the boxes that existed for confining people into preconceived notions. She wonders if she will ever grow past any of those fears; tired of doubts over her own nationality, anger for Illya, and the desire to be judged for oneself. She wonders if Napoleon entirely gets it; sympathetic as he may be, he is unconcerned with nationality and doesn’t have to deal with stigma. 

“It doesn’t matter.” She eventually replies, and Napoleon doesn’t press further. “You're not going to get into any serious trouble, are you Solo?” She asks instead, and Napoleon’s eyebrows merely raise in return as if surprised by her question, before waving his hand dismissively. “You don't have to worry about me, Gaby. I've done far worse.”

It's not really an answer. Illya and Napoleon have a knack for getting themselves in trouble. Napoleon atracted attention more with his ‘light’ fingers, but Illya's temper didn't help in missions that required patience and small talk with the _worst_ of people. At least Napoleon was in trouble with the CIA for something worth some slight disobedience.

Thinking back Napoleon still did choose to defend Illya, and she knows it isn't out of any adherence to Waverly’s vision. The way they all treat each other is one not out of duty to a nation or ideology; it's more than that.

She finished the sandwich and wonders what to say. “Any news?”

“None. Watson and I were talking downstairs; she wants news more than all of us because she looks like she's ready to murder someone.”

“Ha,” she says, and she doesn't really care; Watson always seemed to be an irritating person even if Napoleon thinks she's pretty.

“Well, we’d best be waking Illya as soon as there is actual news, otherwise he’d kill us.” Napoleon said and Gaby nodded.

The door opened suddenly, and Illya stood there, looking bedraggled and still very tired. It almost made Gaby jump out of her skin. “News?” He asked

“No news Peril, I'm afraid.” Napoleon replied.

Gaby glanced at him. He seems more alert, but he still has bags under his eyes. “Go back to bed Illya. You look awful.”

“Even if you attempt to be quiet, I was still awoken, you are bad spies,” Illya says, shrugging. “It is four now, I will stay awake, good for body clock.”

Gaby sighed. If she could, then she would force Illya to sleep, but he was moving out of the doorway and heading towards the shower room. It wasn’t a total loss, since Illya’s quick wash earlier hadn’t gotten rid of the stench of sweat he’d acquired in the damp basement.

He emerges later, hair damp and fully free of crusted blood, and Gaby sees him reach for the roll of gauze as if to wrap his wound himself, so she moves to wrap it herself. Illya gives in and reluctantly allows her to tend to the wound whilst Napoleon deals cards in the corner.

“Gaby and I were setting up a game of Blackjack, care to join?” Napoleon asks as Gaby finishes.

“I do not gamble.”

“I'm only gambling a necklace. Gaby is gambling her dignity.” Napoleon replied, and Gaby smirks. Illya hovers but does not join, merely pulling up a chair to seat himself at their table.

“I mean what I said earlier,” he said, “you do not need to fight for me.”

“Peril-”

“I mean it. This not the first interrogation by superiors.”

Gaby glances st him, but she can't think what to say at this moment as she looks across to Napoleon, who appears to be thinking the exact same thing. She lays down her hand, but Napoleon’s cars are far more impressive. He’ll keep the necklace for now. “I think I'll fight them anyway.” She says to Illya.

Illya isn't pleased, but she cannot care too much. It will take time to unfurl Illya properly.

A knock on the door. It's Watson, and she stands aside for a smiling, of tired Waverly.

“Ah, you’re all awake. Splendid.” He comments as Watson closes the door behind them. “Well, everything's been straightened out. We fly home later today at night.”

The relief that Gaby feels must be mirrored by her two teammates, and she smiles to Napoleon and Illya, who appear to share her sentiments. “It has?” Gaby questions further still, unanswered questions abound. “What did you say?”

“Not a lot. Laarson wasn't convinced by my word and corresponding evidence, so we had to uncover the actual mole. It took to us finding evidence and interrogating the right people.”

Illya nods. “The real culprit?”

“The CIA themselves. Or, one unfortunate agent who admitted they had their house robbed a  while back in Chicago, long before we even arrived. He was too embarrassed to admit that they feared that they had personally left confidential files unattended for them to be copied so easily. So they never spoke, but the group knew months in advance of any potential operation against them.”

“Ridiculous,” Napoleon says, clenching his fist in slight annoyance, “so it was all just a mistake?”

“It was” Waverly comments, sighing and wiping his glasses on his shirt. “But most of history is built on mistakes.”

It's a statement that is blindingly true and completely unsatisfying. “Are we to see Laarson again?”

“UNCLE will leave this mess to the CIA to sort out, White Dawn and all. And I doubt that Laarson will be offering any apologies.” It’s the expected reply and Napoleon huffs. “I’ll be happy to see the back of the CIA for a while.”   


Illya twitches with a smirk. “Of course, they hold your balls still.”

Napoleon doesn’t retort a witty quip to the jibe, and Gaby wonders if that’s his way of communicating that _no, he is taking this seriously_.

Waverly coughs, and the three bring their attention back to their handler and forcing Gaby to not dwell on the situation at hand. “Now if you excuse me, I must be getting some sleep. We leave at eight to catch our flight.” Their handler smiles at them, and looks to them all. 

“Thank you, Sir.” Illya says, giving him a Russian salute. Waverly merely nods. “I got you into this mess, Kuryakin, and it was my duty to get you out. I will add, good work you three. I like a team that works together well.” He leaves the room, presumably to find a bed for himself to sleep in, and Watson follows him, closing the door behind him, but she lingers in the room. “You really are a bizarre team, you all just- get along?”

Napoleon smiles. “We manage.”

Illya scoffs. “We suffer.” he says, but his face has that familiar joking twinkle that she sees when he's feeling relaxed, similar to that time after her night of drunken dancing all those months ago in Rome. She laughs, and Napoleon flashes a grin at her with a twitch of her head. Watson glares at him leaves with a resigned huff. She won't understand, and neither will any of them, she thinks.

The three partners look at eachother, and resign to pack.

\--

“Illya, I thought you were staying awake for your body clock” she mentioned to the sleeping giant, who jerks awake from the plastic chair he had been snoozing in slightly. ”it is nine now, bed time. Also, we will have jet lag. Body clock doesn’t matter now.”

They were at the airport, waiting for their flight to land. Waverly is notably asleep, and it's so strange to see their superior so un-done, but he had spent the whole day either crossing timezones on a plane getting here or negotiating for Illya.

Gaby glanced at Illya. The mottled bruises on his face are healing, but he still looks a bit yellow and his wound on his torso still worries Gaby, even if he's taken some more antibiotics and had the dressing changed again. They’ll get it properly looked at when they reach headquarters, but Illya still assures that he is fine, and he's had much worse. 

She believes him, but it doesn't stop her bother.

He catches her staring at him when he looks out of the corner of his eyes to her.

“You okay, chop-shop?” He asks, offering her a quizzical smile.

She brushes the hair out of her face. “Of course.” She replies, and Illya nods. He takes her hand in his, before stroking his calloused thumb across her knuckles. 

It's tender, and Gaby smiles. Illya let go of her hand when Napoleon pops up behind them. “Any word on the flight?” He says. She suspects that he had gone to the gambling room.

“Can't taxi onto runway. Backlog.”

“Ugh,” Napoleon titters, looking frustrated. “I can't wait to go home.”

‘Home’ is just London HQ currently. It's not much, but at least they all have their own space.

“You just spend all your money again on gifts for random women again, Cowboy.”

“You make it sound as if it's a bad thing, Peril. And here I was, thinking of getting you a little something. Well, if you don't think much about spending money on gifts!”

“I am not random woman.” Illya states, a small flush on his cheeks. 

Gaby watches the two bicker, and she smiles softly as she starts to realise what her previous anxiety has been about.

This whole mission has brought up the fact that they all have conflicting localities. Well, to call Napoleon  _ loyal _ to the CIA or even UNCLE would be hazardous, but it's in the same ballpark, and she knows that if Waverly offers Napoleon an out he would take it. She has always served under Waverly, and she's always been happy with her position. Illya instead has always served under the KGB, happily loyal to his mother country.

She now realises that she can't ignnore that that is a pertinent conflict. She just hopes there is never a reason for a true schism, and the KGB is happy to allow an agent who failed them by burning a computer disc to continue to serve another purpose for a bit.

She also wonders hypothetically what would happen if Illya is faced with a choice to betray them and UNCLE or betray the KGB, who Illya would pick.

A steward comes over to them and announces that their flight can now taxi onto the runway. The trio smile in relief and Napoleon stirs Waverly. 

On the flight, she stretches out to settle in for the long flight back to London, and she still finds herself lost in thought. Illya hands her a blanket as they settle down to sleep on the jet. 

He smiles at her gently, before he closes his eyes and he's asleep before the jet even leaves the ground. 

She looks over to Napoleon, who's drinking a glass of some sort of whiskey whilst flicking through some magazine. He looks up at her and smiles briefly. She wonders if Napoleon ever contemplates the same things she does.

Gaby knows she can't read Illya's mind, but she notices the close protectiveness when they are all together.

She thinks she knows the answer to her own question, or at least she hopes she does; what side and  _ who  _ lllya would pick. As she closes her eyes for the flight home, she inwardly prays that it won't cause any conflict in the future.

She has to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that!
> 
> I almost gave up on this fic once I realised the plot was similar to my previous fic 'Six-Feet Under' (Insert DJ khaled, 'congratulations, you played yourself' gif. Really, I didn't realise). However, the plot wasn't that similar once it got past Illya's chapter, and this fic is around the same length as a story that takes place over a longer time frame (my main issue with Six-Feet Under curretnly being is I wish it was l o n g e r).
> 
> I hope you liked this story. Any feedback is greatly appreciated as usual, and uh, have a great day??

**Author's Note:**

> \- At the end of the end credits, Napoleon's dossier says he had an address in Minnesota. Why did he live in Minnesota? Seems odd. There's a great fic somewhere that explores that. This isn't it.  
> \-- I chose Minnesota because I watched Fargo. The setting isn't that important to the story tho.  
> \--- If you've ever read one of my previous fanfiction's notes you know I hate making titles. This is similar. I did consider 'No-one trusts Illya Affair' though.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. The next chapter should be up in a week.


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